“Yeah. It was nice of you to stand up for me, though.”
“I couldn’t let him talk to you like that. He wants to call me a sinner and a pervert, fine, but I’m not going to let him insult my best friend.”
Jesse bumps up against Wyatt a little, shoulder-to-shoulder. A closed-arm hug.
“Hey. Me and Esther are putting together this thing,” she says, “in a couple of weeks. This, like, dance?”
“I hate dances,” Wyatt responds automatically.
“I know, they’re totally gender-oppressive and awful, but this one is going to be super awesome. We’re holding it in the parking lot of Vander as like, an alternative to the StarMart dance. You should come.”
“Do I have to physically dance?”
“You could just stand there. Actually, we still need a DJ. You want to DJ for us? In your excellent new scarf, once you find it?”
“As you’re aware,” Wyatt says, “I loathe popular music.”
“Yeah, but you know how to work an iPod, right? I’ll set up the playlists, you just need to press PLAY. It’s going to be a ton of fun. And you can hang out with me and Esther. Can you handle that?”
“I can press PLAY,” Wyatt says.
20
Jesse
On the morning of the dances, two weeks later, Jesse wakes up extremely early, before dawn. The sky is a cold ink-blue through the window across from the foot of her bed, and a single star hangs right where Jesse can see it from her pillow, just above the slate gable of the Claussens’ roof across the street. It’s a piercingly bright pinpoint of light, and it seems to throb slightly as Jesse looks at it, like a pulsar.
Jesse lies perfectly still for a couple of minutes in the deep quiet, suspended in thought and time. Her body feels long, strong, and smooth under the covers. Her mind is still. Somewhere just outside the sphere of her mind and body is the reality of what’s going to happen today. It floats closer to Jesse, and closer, moving around her in a sparkly cloud of excitement.
Jesse closes her eyes for a moment, suffused with the starry anticipation of what’s in store, and when she opens them again her room is washed with gray light. She must have fallen back to sleep—now the day is on. Jesse sits bolt upright in bed, her mind suddenly racing with the things she has to do. Pick up donuts and day-old cakes at Beverly Coffee. Meet Esther at Murray and Sons at nine o’clock to collect the cables and clip-lights they’re borrowing. Call Wyatt to check on the sound system ETA. Extension cords, don’t forget the bag of extension cords from Dad’s worktable in the basement, and call Esther and remind her to bring the ones from her house, too. Tape, tape, tape—masking, Scotch, and duct. Don’t forget scissors. Don’t forget rope. Don’t forget to load the folding table into the back of Mom’s Camry so she can bring it over to Vander later. Don’t forget to get the Christmas lights down from the attic.
When Jesse shows up at Murray’s at ten minutes past nine, Esther is sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk to the right of the door, reading. She’s in her bulky coat with a ski hat on her head, and apparently, the October chill doesn’t bother her. Jesse is already a little strung out—Beverly Coffee doesn’t open till ten, it turns out, so she and Esther will have to go back there after this to get the refreshments. She can’t believe she’s already behind on her jobs.
“Why didn’t you go in already?” she asks Esther, mildly miffed.
“I was reading,” Esther explains. “And waiting for you.”
“It doesn’t feel like we’re changing the world,” Jesse says as they head into the store. “It feels like we’re running a million dumb errands.”
“I guess one thing feels a lot like the other.” Esther grins.
For better or worse, Mike McDade isn’t working this morning. But Mr. Murray himself is there, and he greets Jesse warmly when she introduces herself. Mr. Murray is a grandfatherly guy with a mustache and a cardigan, only one button of which closes over his round belly. He smells strongly of cigars, the same cigars, no doubt, that have rasped his voice into a gravelly growl.
“Here’s what I got for you guys,” Mr. Murray says, sliding a big cardboard box—marked HALBERSTAM in Sharpie on one side—across the countertop toward the two of them. “Mike said you just wanted the lighting stuff, right? Take a look in there and see if you want me to throw in anything else.” Esther and Jesse peer into the box, which is filled to the brim with neatly coiled electric cables, metal clip-lights, and surge protector strips.
“Thanks,” Jesse says. “It’s perfect. Thank you so much, Mr. Murray.”